


give in, give in

by alotofthingsdifferent



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, but not really d/s, d/s dynamics, non-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 02:12:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6101383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alotofthingsdifferent/pseuds/alotofthingsdifferent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike dragged the blue-ink ballpoint over each piece of paper they handed him, scribbling his name to a new contract and breathing new life into a career that he thought was long gone, dead and buried. He smiled for the cameras, shook hands with Capitals brass, and started over.</p><p>Little did he know that he’d just signed on for a lot more than putting his blades back on the ice. </p><p>He’d signed on for Tom Wilson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	give in, give in

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, man. Kay posted [this photo](https://41.media.tumblr.com/d0f81436881d55880fdfd27fbeccd8e1/tumblr_o32t4z8tca1tdpl1vo1_1280.jpg) of Tom and his bracelet made me think of wrist cuffs, and then suddenly this happened. Oops?
> 
> This story exists in a universe where the NHL uses older, seasoned players as Masters for younger, in-need-of-guidance players. It's not really D/S, but there are elements of control. Nothing non-con, but there's a small part of a scene that that may be construed as dub-con. I do not personally view it this way, but YMMV, and a (really great) friend pointed out that I might want to warn for it, so, you've been warned! :)
> 
> Thank you to all my twit-friends for encouraging my craziness!

Mike dragged the blue-ink ballpoint over each piece of paper they handed him, scribbling his name to a new contract and breathing new life into a career that he thought was long gone, dead and buried. He smiled for the cameras, shook hands with Capitals brass, and started over.

Little did he know that he’d just signed on for a lot more than putting his blades back on the ice. 

He’d signed on for Tom Wilson.

**

“Me?” Mike balks, staring across the desk at the group of three Capitals council who’ve just told him that he’s been assigned as Tom Wilson’s Master. Mike’s been with the team a total of 34 days, he doesn’t even have his first point yet, and this was the last thing he expected. 

He’s not arguing the necessity - it’s clear the kid needs _someone_. Mike’s been out of the league for a year but he’s not dead, he knows Wilson’s known for getting in too many fights on the ice, flashing too many cocky smiles at reporters and referees alike, and putting himself in compromising positions outside the rink. Frankly, he’s surprised Wilson’s gone this long without management clamping down on him.

He’s just not sure why _he’s_ the one they’ve chosen.

“I’ve never --”

“There’s a guidebook,” the middle guy -- Joe, he thinks -- says, looking at Mike over his glasses. “And you’ve been around long enough to know how this works, Mike. It’s basic stuff.”

“Can’t you just,” he starts, running both hands through his hair. “Talk to him? He seems like a good kid, he just --”

The woman on the left shakes her head sharply. “Don’t you think we’ve tried that? This is a last resort, Mike, and I’m sorry to be the one to remind you of this, but you can’t say no.”

He signs, resigned. He knows she’s right -- it’s in his contract, in black and white -- _Should team management appoint you as Master to a younger player at any point in your contract, you must fulfill your duties as assigned._

“There are a lot of way to go about it, Mike,” she says. “It doesn’t have to be --”

“No, I know,” Mike interrupts. He doesn’t have it in him to sit here and listen to them list off the things he doesn’t have to do, or the things he can. It’s all up to him in the end, anyway, and hearing it out loud doesn’t change anything. “Are we done here?” he asks, leaning back in his chair.

“Just one more thing,” Joe says, and slides a small black box across the desk to Mike. 

He doesn’t bother opening it, just snatches it from the desk and closes his hand over it before letting himself out. 

His mind is racing while he makes his way to his car. He has no idea how Tom’s going to react to the news that he’s been Mastered, but if he had to guess, he’d say Tom will be less than thrilled. They’ve known each other a month, and even though the team welcomed him with open arms, taking over as someone’s Master is a whole other ballgame. 

He’s seen the way Tom looks at him, leaning against his stick and leering at him from across the ice, throwing winks before taking off in a sprint, legs pumping beneath him. He’s a cocky fucker, and Mike can already tell he won’t go down without a fight.

He’s only a little ashamed to admit that he’s looking forward to seeing the kid break.

**

“I'm not moving out of my apartment," is the first thing Tom says when Mike tells him. He’d invited himself over after practice, and Tom and Latts had both given him a weird look before agreeing. "No fucking way, Latts is my roommate and that's not changing."

He squares his shoulders and juts out his chin and huh, Mike thinks. Definitely a challenge. 

“I didn’t say you had to,” Mike says, keeping an even tone. He has no plans to yell at Tom, or to lecture him or shame him into changing his behavior. He has _other_ plans, but before he can put them into motion, he has to test the waters. “I’m fine with you staying with Latts. He’s a good influence.”

Tom rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest, but Mike doesn’t miss the way the corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s trying to hide a smile. “Whatever,” he mumbles, avoiding eye contact. 

“This doesn’t have to be a bad thing, Willy,” Mike continues, and Tom pulls a face. “It can be really good, for both of us.”

“This is bullshit,” Tom snaps, running one hand through his hair in a frustrated move that Mike has sympathy for. “I don’t need you to keep me in line. ”

“Is that so?” Mike asks. “How many penalty minutes do you have in the past 8 games, Tom?” Tom sets his jaw and looks to the side. When he doesn’t answer, Mike leans across the table and slides his fingers over Tom’s chin, turning his head and forcing him to meet his eyes. “How many?”

“26,” Tom spits, and Mike drops his hand, nodding. 

“That’s at least 22 too many,” he says. “This isn’t a joke, kid. This is the NHL, and you’re too young to be making that kind of a name for yourself. Someone’s gotta get you in line, and for whatever reason, management decided that guy’s gonna be me. You can fight me on it, or you can make it easy. Your call.”

With that, he places the black box in the middle of the table and pops it open. Tom’s face goes blotchy-red all the way down to his neck, just as Mike expected.

“I'm _not_ wearing those," he snaps, pushing the pair of simple cuffs, meant to be a reminder that he needs to always be considering his behavior, back at Mike. 

"Ok," Mike says with a shrug. "You get that I have control here, cuffs or not, right?"

Tom clenches his jaw. He grinds his teeth, and Mike doesn’t drop his gaze. 

"And you know I can punish you for saying no, right?"

"I'm not wearing them," he bites. "This is _bullshit_."

Mike watches him for a long moment, then turns his attention to where Latts is laying on his side on the couch, clearing trying not to pay attention. 

"Latts," he says, and Latts looks over his shoulder. There's a flush on the bridge of his nose, spreading over his cheeks. 

Huh.

"C'mere," Mike says, and Latts raises a questioning eyebrow. He hesitates, but eventually gets up from the couch, padding through the living room in bare feet. He stops just at the edge of the table, hovering. He’s radiating a nervous energy that Mike picks up on immediately. 

"You ever had a master?" he asks, and Latts shakes his head at the same time Tom scoffs. 

“Latts is a Good Boy," Tom says, and puts it in air quotes. "He should _be_ a Master.”

The tone in Tom’s voice is telling, and even if it weren’t, the look Latts is shooting him, eyes a little wild, speaks volumes. 

Huh.

He turns his attention back to Tom. "You gonna put them on?" he asks, nodding at the cuffs. Tom stiffens, meets Latts' eyes, and shakes his head.

“No fucking way.”

He glances at Latts, then at Tom, then at the look they’re sharing, and moves ahead with his plan. 

"Fine," he says. "Stand up, hands on the table."

Tom's jaw drops, and Latts whips his head to look at Mike, eyes wide.

Mike waits. 

And waits. He stares at Tom. "I have all day, Willy. I'm not going anywhere."

Tom makes a face and pushes his chair back with a loud scrape. He flattens his palms on the table and glares at Mike.

"Uh," Latts says, clearing his throat. "I'll just--"

"No," Mike says firmly. "You stay."

Latts goes red. "But this is--"

"You're gonna do it for me," Mike says, matter-of-fact, and Latts sucks in a sharp breath that matches the one Tom takes. Mike's heart is pounding. The tension in the air is palpable. Two long minutes tick by until Latts' shoulders drop in resignation. 

Tom's eyes go to him immediately. "Latts, c'mom, this is bullshit and you _know_ it!" Tom complains. "I don't need --"

"Yeah, Tommy," Latts cuts him off. "You do."

The look on Tom’s face is a mixture of betrayal and shock. Mike sits back in his chair and puts a hand over his mouth to cover his pleased smile. 

"You're outta control lately, man. You can't keep--"

"Whatever," Tom interrupts. "just fucking do it then." He drops his head, his hair hanging in his face. Mike studies the strong line of his shoulders, the bulges of tense muscle bunched under the sleeves of his tshirt. Punishing Tom wouldn’t be a hardship -- in fact, Mike would probably enjoy it -- but he knows that in order to gain Tom’s trust, he has to play the game a little differently. 

"Tom," Latts pleads. "Just wear them. C'mom, just put them on."

Tom raises his head, and his eyes meet Mike's. There's a flash of something there, a challenge, maybe, and Mike shrugs one shoulder.

"No," Tom says, and Latts makes a pained sound.

Mike nods once, then pushes back from the table, stands and makes his way to Tom. He stands behind him, close enough that he can feel the way Tom tenses, the way he holds his breath. Tom’s bigger than him by at least 5 inches, broader in the shoulders, and it sends an unexpected rush through Mike, his blood thrumming hard under his skin. Latts is watching with wide eyes, his mouth open just the slightest bit, and when their eyes meet, Mike has to swallow hard and look away, regain his composure and remember the game plan. 

Remember that he’s the one in charge. 

He gets a knee between Tom's thighs, nudges them apart even as Tom grunts in annoyance. He stiffens when Mike gets an arm around his waist, his fingers working Tom's belt open, tugging his zipper down so his pants are loose around his hips. Mike wonders fleetingly if he’s hard, but he supposes he’ll find out soon enough. He leans in, his chest flat against Tom's back. "Last chance, Willy," he says quietly.

"Fuck you," Tom grunts, and Mike barks out a laugh. 

“Tough guy, huh?” Mike mumbles, and watches Tom’s hands clench into fists against the tabletop when Mike works his pants down, his fingers brushing the curve of Tom’s ass as he goes. He glances at Latts, completely unsurprised by the way he has his bottom lip pulled between his teeth, biting so hard it’s gone white.

Tom's pants pool at his ankles, and Mike pushes his shirt up so it's rucked up around his ribs. He feels Tom’s skin tighten with goosebumps wherever his fingers brush, and when he takes a step back, out of Tom's space, Tom makes a questioning sound. 

"You're up, Latts," he says, and he chuckles when Tom's head snaps up.

"What?" he asks with a smirk. "You thought I was kidding?"

He watches the look that passes between Tom and Latts and notices, with sudden interest, that his own dick is hard between his legs.

When Latts doesn't move, Mike reaches out, wraps his fingers around his wrist, and tugs. Latts startles, but lets Mike move him into positions behind Tom, his hands shaking just a little. 

“It’s ok," Mike says in Latts' ear, low enough that only he can hear. "He trusts you. I know what I'm doing."

Latts hesitates, but finally nods, and Mike palms his hip before taking his seat across from Tom again. 

"Ok," Mike says. "Go."

He thought Latts would take his time, to be honest. He expected him to need more coaxing. But the first slap falls quickly, with a loud snap, and Tom huffs out a shocked breath. He whines when Latts hits him again, two and three times in quick succession.

Mike presses the heel of his palm between his legs, biting back a groan at the heat pooling in his belly. 

"You gotta listen, Tommy," Latts is saying, quiet, close to Tom’s ear. “You gotta do what they tell you, you gotta listen to Richie." 

Tom's braced on his elbows now, his breath coming in quick pants. He's flushed from his face to his neck, and his eyes are closed, long eyelashes splayed out over his cheeks. He licks his lower lip and breathes out slowly, and Mike doesn’t miss the way he pushes back on his elbows, silently urging Latts on.

"Fuck," Latts mumbles, after Mike's lost count of how many blows he's landed.

“Look at you, Tommy," he says, and Tom whimpers when Latts cups his ass and both hands. Latts raises his eyes to meet Mike's, and Mike nods.

"You gonna be good now, Tom?" he mumbles, and when Tom doesn't answer, Latts swats him again.

Mike gets up. His dick is a hard line in his jeans, obscenely obvious, and he doesn’t hide his grin when Latts’ gaze drops between his legs, his eyes going darker. 

“You did a good job, Latts," he says, trailing his fingers up Latts' arm, pressing them into the hollow of his throat. Latts swallows hard, watches Mike flatten his palm over Tom's lower back, his fingers spread wide.

"We're here to help you be better, Tom," he says quietly, sliding his fingertips over the angry red skin on Tom's ass. Tom hisses, and Latts makes a soft sound at Mike’s side. "I'll make a deal with you," he says, still tracing gentle circles on Tom's skin. "You wear the cuffs," he says, "and I'll let Latts blow you."

Tom makes a strangled sound and looks over his shoulder, but he’s not looking at Mike.

He's looking at Latts, who's looking right back.

“Yeah,” Mike says, nosing along the shell of Tom’s ear. “Yeah, babe, that’s what I thought.” He can’t resist pressing his palms to Tom’s cheeks, spreading him a little before landing a sharp slap of his own. Tom cries out, and Mike crouches behind him, presses his lips to the marks left by Latts’ hands.

“Jesus,” Latts says under his breath, and when Mike turns his head, he sees the outline of Latts’ dick in his sweats, tenting the soft material. 

“You good?” Mike asks, because he knows this is unorthodox. He’s nothing but a teammate to Latts, he has no control over him. He should have asked first, probably, before letting it get this far. This isn’t how it’s done, and he knows the team wouldn’t approve of him bringing Latts in, but Mike knows.

Mike knows this is the only way Tom will agree. 

Latts nods, no sign of any hesitation in his face, and Mike slides his hands up Tom’s sides, his fingers gliding over Tom’s ribs, catching on his shirt. He tugs it up and off without any resistance from Tom, who places his palms flat on the table as soon as his shirt hits the floor. 

Mike crouches down again, kisses the spot behind Tom’s knee, and taps on the back of his calves before wrapping his fingers around one of Tom’s ankles. Tom lifts one foot, then the other, and Mike shoves the pile of clothes to the side. “Stay put,” he says quietly, and gets to his feet. He can feel Latts’ eyes on him while he digs through the junk drawer in the kitchen, finally coming up with a Sharpie clutched in his hand. 

He tugs the cuffs from their box and unclasps one, then the other, before uncapping the Sharpie. Tom’s head is down, his eyes locked on the table. His shoulders rise and fall in time with the quick breaths he’s taking, and Mike looks at Latts with one eyebrow raised.

Latts catches on quickly, and Mike feels a rush of fondness at the way he presses up against Tom’s side, cards his fingers through Tom’s hair and mumbles in his ear. He can only make out some of the words, “Doing so good” and “Got you”, and all at once, he knows he’s made the right call.

He scribbles “Richie” on one of the cuffs, small enough that only they’ll know what it says, and “Latts” on the other, then re-caps the Sharpie and moves in against Tom’s other side. 

“Here, c’mon,” he says, coaxing Tom upright, turning him around and leading him to the couch with a hand on the small of his back. Tom’s dick bobs in front of him, not all the way hard but not soft either, and Mike has to tell his own dick to chill -- there’s plenty of time. “Sit,” he says, and Tom goes without comment. “Give me your wrist.”

Tom hesitates for a split second, but when Latts sits next to him, his thigh snug against Tom’s, Tom holds his hand out, palm up. Mike touches the veins in Tom’s wrist, featherlight, and holds one of the cuffs up so Tom can see what it says. He doesn’t react but to blink, and he swallows hard when Mike fastens it around his wrist. 

When he holds up his other wrist, Mike shakes his head, and Tom frowns in confusion. “But you said --”

“I know what I said,” Mike replies. “But the other one isn’t mine to give.” 

They both look at Latts then, Mike with knowing eyes and Tom with a questioning, hopeful gaze. 

Mike holds the second cuff out to Latts, and Latts’ cheeks go pink when he sees what’s written on the inside. “Mike,” he says quietly. “I can’t -- “ 

“Yes,” Mike says. “You can. I run the show, remember? And besides.” He takes a chance, covers Latts’ knee with his hand and squeezes lightly. “I’m pretty sure it should have been you all along.”

Tom holds a shaky hand out to Latts, who brings it to his lips and kisses the inside of Tom’s wrist before fastening the cuff around it. 

“What they don’t know can’t hurt them,” Mike says, shooting Latts a look that he hopes gets his message across. Latts nods in understanding, and Mike turns his attention to Tom. “This doesn’t mean you don’t have to listen to me,” he says, and Tom nods. The grateful look in his eyes doesn’t go unnoticed by Mike, and he’s overcome by the sudden urge to sandwich himself between the two of them and bask in the warmth. He pushes the feeling down and instead gets his hands on Tom’s knees, pushes them apart and digs his thumbs into the creases of Tom’s thighs. “Now,” he says, licking the corner of his mouth where it’s turned up into a crooked grin. “I believe we owe you a blowjob.”


End file.
